Dragon Moon (6 page)

The water is so calm, the sea breeze so lazy, that it seems to me a shame to move so slowly. I push the throttle forward just enough to bring the motors up to half-speed. The Grady White rushes forward, leaves the channel behind in minutes. And Henri sleeps on.

I toy with the thought of detouring north, running up to the Port of Miami so Henri can see whatever big cruise ships are in port. But instead I head for the horizon, miles south of Key Biscayne where only the sky and the water are visible. Soon enough, I know, our island will begin to make its presence known.

Resisting the impulse to go faster, I stroke my sleeping son and concentrate on the movement of the boat and the water around it. Behind me the sun rides low enough in the sky for its rays to reach under the boat's canopy and burn against my back. To our right, a cormorant spooked by the nearness of our passage erupts from the water, fluttering and splashing as it takes flight.

Henri would have loved that, I think, but I let the child rest.

The far-off thunder of powerful motors breaks the quiet of the day. I turn, scan the water until I spot the boat exiting the Dinner Key channel far behind me. Over forty feet long, bullet shaped, the red-and-white Cigarette speedboat must be traveling at least sixty miles per hour. I glare at it, wish there were a way to stop it from disturbing a day like this.

The drone of the boat's motors continues to grow and after a few minutes, I look back again. The speedboat seems to be traveling in the same direction as we are and has already halved the distance between us. I watch it race toward me, remember Rita's words again, and wonder if she was warning me about Tindall, wonder if he would have the courage to arrange an attack. Shaking my head at the paranoia a few words can cause, I still alter my course to see if the boat's pursuing me or just accidentally traveling the same way.

At first, the speedboat continues on its original path. But just as I begin to feel silly about changing course, it curves toward me.

I toy with the thought of running to shore, but I know the approaching craft can reach almost twice my speed. Steering with one hand, I reach inside the compartment in the boat's console and feel around for the flare gun kit I put on board years ago. I pull the plastic case out, lay it on the dash in front of me, open it, remove the gun and a flare.

The engine sounds behind me continue to grow. I load the flare gun, cock it, hold it by my side and turn to find the boat closer than I expected, its bow pointed straight at the center of my stern as the speedboat rushes up the middle of my wake, where the water's the smoothest. A rooster tail of white water shoots up behind it, the speedboat's wake swelling up and spreading.

I get ready to aim the flare gun, then see the faces of the boat's driver and the blond woman beside him. Middle-aged, face bloated and flushed, the man looks like no assassin I've ever imagined.

The boat races closer until it's only a few lengths behind my stern. Too near for me. I begin to raise the flare gun, decide to fire at the driver's head if the boat comes much closer. But it approaches only a few feet more before it cuts to the right, jumping my wake, almost flying a few yards before it splashes down.

Jerk, I think, shaking my head. Most probably drunk, showing off for the woman. The speedboat turns back toward me, races up on the right side of my Grady White. I yell, “Henri! Hold on!” just before the roar of the Cigarette's massive motors makes any further shouting pointless. Dropping the flare gun, I gun the throttle with one hand, yank the wheel to the left with the other, trying to turn away from the boat before it overtakes me. But the Cigarette turns with me, finally passing with only a few feet between us.

Just as they come alongside my boat, I read the license numbers on the bow, FL332428, commit them to memory.

The Cigarette roars past, the blonde glancing back, pointing to her boat's wake as it smashes into us, both of them laughing.

The right side of our hull rises almost perpendicular to the water. Henri slides into me, cries out, “Papa!”

I turn us hard left, to stabilize the boat, then right, curving into the other boat's wake, the Grady White slicing through the waves, going airborne for an instant, slamming back into the water — white foam everywhere.

Henri falls forward, strikes his forehead on the edge of the console, gashing it open, blood immediately flowing down his face, into his eyes. “Papa!” he screams again and I cut back on the throttle, let the boat wallow in the remainder of the Cigarette's wake as I pick up my injured child, hug him to me.

“Shh,” I say. “You're going to be okay. It just scared you. You know how to heal yourself. Do you want my help?”

My son shakes his head, the bleeding already stopping, the wound beginning to close.

I look away, wrinkle my nose at the stink of the gas fumes the other boat leaves behind. Reading the lettering on the boat's stern, DOCTOR'S RX, I memorize that too. I will permit no one to injure my son and go unpunished — not ever. Shaking my head, clenching and unclenching my fists, it takes all my self-control not to pursue them now.

It would take only a moment for me to change and take to the air, just a few minutes more for me to catch them and rip them from their boat. I wish the world were such that I could pursue my revenge in such a direct and expeditious manner. But I know I never could risk a daylight attack with the almost certainty of being seen.

“It's okay, son. ... We're okay,” I say. “That was just some idiot showing off. He'll learn his lesson soon enough.”

As soon as we arrive home and get off the boat, Henri scampers off to play. I rush inside, take the spiral staircase to the great room on the third floor and go to the window overlooking Biscayne Bay. Sunlight streams through the glass, the sun already low enough in the sky to punish anyone facing west with its heat and its glare. Squinting, ignoring the warmth by the window, I study the water for any sign of a red-and-white speedboat. But I see nothing, not the Cigarette, not any other craft — just miles of empty, blue-green water.

Of course, I think, I should know better than to expect to find the boat within sight. When I last saw it, it was heading south and I was heading east. I turn from the window, pace the room, look for something to occupy my mind, divert my thoughts. But I keep picturing the smile on that fool's face when he blew by me in his Cigarette. He hurt my son. I want his name. I want to know where he lives.

I check my watch and curse. LaMar Associates closes at five. Already it's more than half an hour past that. Too late to call the office and demand that Arturo get me the name and address of the speedboat's owner.

Still, I toy with the thought of taking quick revenge. I pick up my cellphone. I know, if I called Arturo at home, if I insisted, he'd find a way to make someone research the boat's number for me, find out who owned DOCTOR'S RX and deliver the information to me before the night passed.

And then what? A quick attack, no matter what the time? I can picture — if he were here — how my father would shake his head.
“Rash actions often bring unexpected consequences,”
he warned long ago.
“Better to wait a short while than to rush into a disaster.”

If I could, I'd tell Father how tired I am of being careful. Elizabeth, who was always more reckless than me, used to argue, “What's the point of being powerful if you can't act powerfully?”

I yearn to lash out, but still I put down the cellphone. For now, I'm not willing to go against my father's teachings. I breathe deep, try to displace my anger with other thoughts.

Soon, I tell myself, we'll be on our way to Jamaica, to our new home at Bartlet House. A little while longer than that and I'll finally be able to see Chloe again. But rather than the thought reassuring me, it makes me sigh.

I've been daydreaming about the girl for years. Ordinarily, just picturing her in my mind calms me. But now that the time is coming closer, I wonder how she'll greet me, whether I'll be able to win her as my mate. And, if Chloe does eventually come into our lives, how will my son react to her?

I stare out the window, study the blue water and mutter, “If only life could be simple.” Then I remember my conversation with Rita and sigh again. Yet another problem. Reaching into my pocket, I take out the folded paper she gave me and smooth it out.

Studying the number, I shake my head. The last thing I want to hear right now is any bad news from the office. Not that Rita ever said there was a problem. She only said she wanted to discuss something with me. But chances are, I'm sure, I won't like what she says.

Somewhere below, Henri giggles. I smile at the sound and decide Rita's problem can wait until after the boy's asleep. For now, I'd far rather go see what new mischief my son's invented.

4

“Mr. DelaSangre!” Rita breathes into her phone. “I'm so glad you called.”

“I hope it isn't too late. I was sort of busy with Henri. He put up a major resistance to going to bed tonight and this is my first chance to call.”

“No. It's not too late at all. I only got in a few minutes ago. Anyway, I never go to sleep before twelve. I was hoping to hear from you.”

The woman confuses me. At the office her tone had alternated between warm and business brisk. Now she couldn't be warmer than if I were a new beau calling to make a date.

“You said there was something you heard that I should know?” I say, keeping my own voice businesslike.

“I didn't hear it; I read it. Please don't think I'm a snoop. I'm not. It's just that one of my jobs is to do the mail and when any legal papers pass by my desk I like to look at them,” she says. “I'm going to Nova Law at night and I think it's good to see how they do it in the real world. I have to tell you, Mr. Tindall may not be the nicest man to work for, but his legal work is great to learn from. ...”

“And you read what?” I say.

“This isn't going to hurt my job is it? I won't be through with Nova for a while yet and I like working at LaMar.”

Rita speaks with just the right amount of earnest innocence. I smile at her ability to do so. Ian better watch out for this one, I think. Me too. “Somehow I don't think you'd be telling me anything you thought would put your job in jeopardy,” I say.

She pauses for a moment, laughs. “No, I guess not.”

“Would you also be expecting me to do something for you?”

Rita laughs again. “That would be up to you, Mr. DelaSangre. But I don't think ambition is a bad thing. Do you?”

Not as long as it serves my interests, I think, then say, “Why don't you tell me what you saw?”

“Well I didn't know that they could, because of it being in Biscayne National Park, like your island is, but did you know Wayward Key was privately held?”

“Yes,” I say, thinking of the island just a hundred yards or so to my north. “The original owner bought it to keep it as a bird sanctuary.”

“Which was the intent of his children and their children. But the current owner, Paul Deering, died a few months ago and, with no children of his own and no living siblings, the island goes to his only niece. She doesn't seem to care much about our feathered friends.”

“And?”

“Somehow Mr. Tindall got wind of this. He and some friends have put a bid on the island.”

“A lot of good that will do them. The park service doesn't want any development on any of the islands. They've been pestering me to sell to them for years. ...”

“I thought so too. But Mr. Tindall received a letter from the director of the park service. He thanked him for being so innovative as to propose building Florida's first ecologically sensitive resort — all natural flora, vacation huts that blend in with the landscape, complete with solar and wind power, even eco-tours of the surrounding waters. He said that a project like that could possibly presage a new era of business and government working together to improve the environment. A few days later, I happened to be in Mr. Tindall's office when he had stepped out and there were some plans on his desk showing a resort — asort of Ralph Nader meets Walt Disney vacation experience.

“Anyway,” Rita continues, “the talk around the office is that you're pretty insistent on maintaining your privacy. I thought you might not like this at all.”

“You thought right,” I say. “So do you know how much Tindall paid for the park service director's support?”

“No, but I bet it was a lot.”

The thought of vacationers staying at a resort on an island only a hundred yards from my island makes me shudder. “Has the deal gone through yet?” I say.

“I'm not sure.... I did see a letter from the Deering girl's attorney objecting to some of the terms of the first offer.”

“Is Gomez involved?”

Rita laughs again. “You can't even get Mr. Gomez to order lunch with Mr. Tindall. No, he isn't involved.”

“You didn't by any chance make any copies of all this paperwork you saw?”

“Mr. DelaSangre, that would be wrong!” she banters. “Of course, there might be some papers somewhere around here that I can get my hands on.”

I smile. “You know, Rita, we just might have a place for you after you finish law school.”

“You sure know how to talk to a girl, Mr. DelaSangre.”

“Call me Peter,” I say. “Listen, Rita, it would be great if a folder holding all those copies was placed on Arturo's desk first thing tomorrow morning. Leave him a note telling him I'll be calling to discuss it.”

“Mr. Tindall will be furious.”

“He may be.” I grin at the thought of Tindall red faced and sputtering. I've long wanted someone else in office to use to help counter Tindall's machinations. The girl surely has her own agenda, but she could be the one. “But if things work out the way I hope they can,” I say, “I don't think he'll be able to be sure who, if anyone, screwed his deal up.”